Soldier Side
by Poetor
Summary: Hawkeye lets his thoughts wander in the early-morning calm. Oneshot songfic.


**Soldier Side**** - a MASH ****songfic**

**Hawkeye lets his thoughts wander in the early-morning calm.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own a) this character b) this fictional reality or c) these lyrics.**

**Please Read and Review.**

5:30 a.m. in Korea. The sun begins to rise, a brief, mocking flash of hope in the warzone. Sometimes I just marvel at the irony, the beauty within destruction. I run my hands through my thinning, graying head of hair. It's true what they say, you know. About stress causing gray hair. God knows the stress never stops here. Or does He?

Maybe you're a sinner in your alternate life

Crimson specks settle on my pillow, and I smell that familiar metallic smell. The one substance that smells of life and death simultaneously. Blood … whose? Maybe it's not the blood of one, but many. I can't tell anymore. It's funny, isn't it? We spend all our lives differentiating, trying to be individuals, unique. But we're all the same underneath, aren't we? When it comes down to it, each man is a collection of parts, a paradox, an ordinary miracle.

Maybe you're a mourner, maybe you deserve to die

I'm quite literally holding their lives in the palms of my hands. The stuff's ingrained in every crevice, every line of flesh I possess. I try to scrub it away, but it's been too long. I hardly know what it's like to bleed for myself anymore. Too much time bleeding for others, I suppose. For men … boys. Boys looking for a little glory, adventure. Of course, they learn all too soon that the term "police action" is a fallacy. I don't see any policemen, do you? Only boys in soldier suits, patrolling, spying, killing, dying … all for the benefit of Uncle Sam.

They were crying when their sons left; God is wearing black

War takes payment in many forms: sons, brothers … fathers. God, I miss my father. The way we'd joke over dinner, letting the food get cold, even after Mom was gone. She'd want us to laugh, he'd say. What I wouldn't give just to hear him call my name. It's all I have to comfort me in this early morning mist. My nickname, Hawkeye. It's from The Last of the Mohicans, my father's favorite book. Of course, it's also the only book he ever read, but that's neither here nor there, is it?

He's gone so far to find no hope, He's never coming back

I close my eyes once more as the camp begins to wake. I hear Radar coming towards me, but he's stopped by my bunkmates. The whispers begin: "_17 hours in surgery_"."_62 patients_". "_Completely exhausted_". Within seconds, I'm left alone in the tent, free to ponder perhaps the heaviest casualty of war: marriage.

They were crying when their sons left; all young men must go

"_Dear John …_" Even when they make it to the hospital and survive the operations, there's never a shortage of emotional pain. "_I love you and miss you so much, and I hope you understand why I have to_ …" To what? To tell you I've cheated on you? I've found someone else to take care of me? I'm through with worrying about you every minute of every day? In the 2 years I've been here, I've heard it all. If I wasn't in this nightmare, I'd be disgusted. The disloyalty, the shame, the cruelty, to abandon someone whilst they're thousands of miles away, fighting to stay alive.Yet I understand. This place changes people. It's foolish to believe you'll leave here the same as before. The war machine leaves indelible marks. They're below the surface, but still very present. Like slow-acting poison, they erode the souls of all infected.

Welcome to the soldier side; people all grow up to die

Every day I allow myself these moments to reflect. Even in the midst of this mindless slaughter, this senseless violence, hope somehow finds me. Hope that one day soon this will end. That I'll be able to walk without leaving red footprints. Talk without the clink of shrapnel punctuating each phrase. And listen … listen without dreading those terrible words …

There is no one here but me

"_Incoming choppers_!"


End file.
